Delicate Afflictions
by TheHeroineIsMe
Summary: Here lie my delicate afflictions. A series of Rivetra drabbles from varying verses. Due to their length, they don't warrant their own "stories". New chapters will be added as new drabbles are written. {{ Rivetra / Levi x Petra }} Rating varies by drabble. Some fluffy, some silly, some romantic, some angsty, some M.
1. Colour

"What do you like about me, Captain?"

"Hnnnn?" A low, inquisitive, rolling sound escapes his throat. "That's a strange fucking question, Petra."

"I mean it. What do you like about me, Levi?"

"Which part of you?"

"My personality… my appearance…" Her sweet tone trails a bit at the end.

"You're name. Petra: _Stone_. natural, sturdy and eternal like the earth."

"Okay, and my appearance?"

He quirks a brow as she pushes this question further.

"Your face."

"You have to be more specific, Captain." A flirtatious smile covers her contours, her eyes narrowing playfully.

"Your eyes."

"What about them?"

"The colour."

"The colour?"

"Hn." He nods stiffly.

"The colour's not that important, Levi." She speaks with a playful, light tone.

He studies her now; the speckled splay of lighted dots and shadows that break over her through the thicket above, casting splotchy patterns over her otherwise porcelain face, how the streams of crimson escaping her facial orifices play in such great contrast over her ivory skin; from her nose and her tender, pink lips that hang slightly agape, along one cheek; blood, _cold_ and _dry_. A contrast of textures as well- her body crumpled and battered, her brow weak and tired, as her freckle-spiced skin is bordered so harshly with the rough tree bark on the rippling grass below his feet. And finally; Her eyes, cold… and pale… and gone. Lifeless and lost from this world. No longer like the warm honey of her being; kind and sweet and sunny. They are now greyed and glossed.

_You're wrong_, he thinks.


	2. Tomorrow

He shifts in the bed, breathing in deeply. The air is musty and stiff—but it matters not, for he has her; so tightly bundled in his arms. He pulls her ever close against him, as if he feared she'd cease to exist should he let go, as if she'd unravel like a delicate cloth. There's a salty taste in his mouth and he doesn't know why; his eyes clenched shut as he surrounds her with all of his being, his brow crinkled and broken. He heaves in deeply, attempting to take in her scent; any bit of her existence, of her _humanity,_ before they leave these walls tomorrow for expedition. She's so frail, so soft, so _thin_. He, shaken, opens the thickly lashed lids of his sharp, thin, ashen eyes, to find himself _alone_, his arms bundled with the sea of sheets of her bed.

He heaves, curling around the linens with a broken brow as he bites his lower lip, silent tears escaping scrunched, pained eyes. This room hasn't smelled of her for months; it is musty... and dusty... and _stale..._ and _stiff..._ and _dry._ However, he can't bring himself to clean it—for that would only wipe away the last bits of her being from these quarters they once shared.


	3. In Which Levi Sucks At Flirting

"Ah, shit!"

She curses, wincing a copper eye shut as she furiously scratches at a few of the risen bumps on her arms, attention particularly captured by one in the crook.

"It was your idea to come here."

"Your point?" A tone of irritation.

"All you've done the whole time is complain, Petra."

Well, this is true. First she complained about the heat, then the smoke, now… the swollen lumps on her arms, which she scratches ever roughly, her pulled-back copper locks playing at the nape of her neck as she shifts with aggravation. He can clearly remember making the point before they came here that all the things she's now bitched about, sucked about campfires, in addition to others.

"Fuck, Petra. Stop. You're going to make yourself bleed."

She shoots sharp, amber eyes to the asshole of a man she has the pleasure of calling her fiancé. He looks her over; even her freckle-spiced, porcelain legs, exposed to the crotch in her short shorts as she sits atop the stone across from him, are dotted with risen bites, which only worsen as she scratches.

"Fucking stop."

"Fuck- why don't they bite you?"

"Because I'm an asshole— not the most appealing taste."

"Yeah. You are."

"And you're just that sweet."

Her honey eyes widen a tad, a light furrow folding in to her amber brow beneath a copper fringe as she gives him a questioning smirk; slight mockery. He sucks at flirting.

"That was just cheesy, Levi."

Though her future husband is an asshole, a _huge_ asshole- for such a small statured man… he is _her_ asshole; one that sucks at flirting, even though he rarely does so.

However, she's a fool for his cheesy compliments.


	4. Together Again

He makes solemn steps to a single post; wooden and worn. He sports a fine suit, as he does, every day when he comes here, white lilies tucked as a corsage in to the pocket of his black jacket, adorning one of his finest, lace edged cravats to finish the look. Pained eyes fall to this post; she's been reduced to _so little... _he was never able to provide her with what he truly hoped for; a true relationship, marriage, a partner, a _family._ Ashen orbs crash with regret, his chest tight, his brow softened and worn, just like the post that so represents her being now, but it matters not. At least she was happy; she always said she was... He doesn't believe it; not one bit. Sure, the very essence of her being for him was joy... but she wasn't truly joyous. And... she broke his trust; broke the promise she made him; that she would be his bride. But that doesn't matter now; for he failed her in return... he wasn't there when she needed him most. Yes, they each broke a promise; a very hefty one... so easy to make and so hard to keep... that doesn't mean that it hurt him any less to lose her from this world.

He swallows hard, his brow upturned and broken, his face painted with pain as he lowers himself to one knee, silky black bangs playing at a thin, broken brow as he leans forward, placing the ornate bouquet against the post; bursting with layers upon layers of flowers— peaches and corals and whites and tiny sprigs in different colours; to replace the bundle from yesterday. He never got to see her down the aisle before she left this world. Never got to provide her the opportunity to carry a bouquet; just as grand- No. It would have been grander than these... Hn. It doesn't matter, he will continue to bring her these flowers, every day, for years and years if necessary… until he ceases to be; every day, another failed attempt at taking the hand of a woman who's left him. He adjusts and straightens his lace-edged cravat, his throat feels tight— too tight- as he closes thin, softened, ashen eyes briefly in her memory, only to open them to a pained brow; bent and broken, forcing his eyes closed again as he heaves in silence over the worn, wooden post upon which her name is inscribed— her body, like all of them… was burned. All that is left... is this post to serve as her memory. It isn't enough. His body begins to heave as he clutches the bouquet from yesterday; still fresh, but it matters not— he'll bring one every day—He swears it. He grasps it, so desperately; tightly, in his hand, his knuckles turning white—as if doing so would give her being anew… His grip is harsh, causing the paper to crinkle with his force as he body tenses- just like the contours of a face that was once normally so deadpan. The grooves beneath his lower lash line deepen as his brow folds, forcing tears to break over his thick, lower lash line, staining his face in hot, searing, silent, dark lines.

Tomorrow, in place of a bouquet, he will bring her a _crown,_ one of flowers— to lay over her post. She was, afterall _the Queen of his heart._ Even though she broke his trust— broke _him,_ he can never cease the thoughts and memories he has of her; he never will… and he would never want to. She was quite the warrior; breaking down his walls; _delving_ into this spot in his chest that's been ever weighted since her death. He sobs— silently, his face contorting and wrinkling with pain as he strugglingly pulls her name to rigid lips;

"P-"

But he can't… those two syllables won't come; and it's as if he's no longer human— so long ago he lost his _Wings of Freedom._

Petra moves, dressed in a simple white summer dress. It tickles her bare thighs as the soft wind blows, toying the ivory hem. It has been many years, _so_ many years since he left her- left this earth. Five years from this very day. His life ripped from his body. And how devastated it left the honey coloured girl.

"Hey, Levi. I brought you some flowers. I wasn't sure which ones you'd like more… So I brought a bunch."

Her words are humble and soft, as to keep it from cracking and crumbling before her. Walking up to the marker. A wood cross, with the name 'Levi' across on a separate piece of wood. He never did have a familial name. Levi. The name that once brought warmth to her heart, a smile to her face: Now only brought a hollow gut and soft tears to her eyes. _God_ how she loved this man, how foolish she was truly. Some locals even claim to say, no matter what, rain, snow, or shine that the speckled girl returned each day with a different set of flowers, tea, and a book. A book from which she read aloud. As though someone were to listen.

After another two years, the girl herself stopped coming; the last set of flowers left withering in their resting place. A death had crept up: Death of a broken heart. Though one thing can be said- _/They are finally together again/._

{Petra's part is not mine, but is posted with permission.}


	5. Poetry is you

It's an old, well-worn and -loved thing; riddled with torn pages, frayed corners and a cracked spine; more tape than book holding it together and filled with dozens of little, scribbled tabs; a system only she could decipher. It's old and filthy and so worn he doesn't understand why she argues to keep it.

"We aren't that poor, Petra. I'll buy you another one."

"It's not about the money." A soft smile.

Days and nights pass and he offers time and time anew to replace the well-loved tome. She always says the same.

"It wouldn't be the same, Levi."

He can't fucking understand why, but it matters not. He wishes he could throw that fucking book away, but if he did, he'd be left without the pleasure that comes with it.

Every night. The same: the bed creaks lightly as she slips into the cool sea of sheets, resting her spine against the rigid headboard that thunks against the wall and his face contorts with annoyance but softens considerably as she pulls out a book; _that_ _book_, turning the first page open rather slowly, before flipping back and forth a few minutes as he shifts so as to pull her against him in the bed. And... she reads. Aloud. He tends to close his eyes during these moments; the thin grooves beneath his lower lash line diminishing somewhat in his relaxation; just feeling her sweet, patterned voice wash over him. It doesn't really matter what she's saying; at times he attempts to dissect the words, at others, he just lets her drown him in them—that's all he really wants of it anyway. He comes to look forward to that rhythmic speech, the sweet curve of her syllables, the ominous pausing of her voice, the rise and fall of her tone. It's addictive. He never once thought he could love a voice so much.

"What the fuck is this?"

"What's what, Levi?"

"You. This. This shit you read me every night."

Her copper orbs soften, nestling in the crook of his arm at his shoulder, placing the book open, downward against the bump beneath her night gown.

"Poetry."

"And what is that?"

She shifts again, rubbing a hand over the stretched curve of her torso.

"You."

Her voice is ever light there. His gaze softens, a pensive crinkle growing in his thin brow as he still lacks understanding.

"What do you mean, Petra?"

"That's what poetry is. You."

She says it playfully, a loving sheen to her copper orbs as she turns the page.

Years later, tucking his daughter into bed, instead of quietly drifting to sleep, she shifts restlessly against the pillow billowed about her splayed, amber locks. Though, it's not until he turns to leave that she speaks.

"Papa?"

He turns back to her, kneeling anew with a softened, ashen gaze as he pierces hers of cerulean, speaking flatly.

"What is it, Lilia?"

"That book Mama used to read from, with the stories, will you read it to me?"

His charcoal gaze grows pensive and deep, though his face is deadpan otherwise.

"It's not stories, Lilia."

"What is it then, Papa?"

"Poetry."

"What's poetry?"

His brow breaks a little at the charming girl's words, shifting so as to sit on the edge of the bed alongside her. _It's a question,_ that years ago, he himself, would have been incapable of answering; he's always been poor with words, and of few. However, _it's then_ that he truly understands what Petra said to him all those years ago when he posed the same.

"You."

"Huh?" A perplexed look.

He reaches up, brushing a hand over her knotted, honey fringe as he speaks.

"Poetry... is you."

Maybe someday she'll understand.


	6. What is this shit?

"What is this shit?" It isn't the first time he's made such a face.

"Hmm?" A pale, inward smile crosses her lips and dances across her honey eyes. She knew this was coming.

"_This_ shit." He prods at the vegetable-dotted, pile of fine grain on his plate before moving his utensil to the roughage.

"Well, that's spinach."

"Tch. You know what I mean, Petra. Why is there nothing but vegetables on this plate?"

"We're going vegan." She smiles.

"What the fuck's that?"

"A vegan diet is a vegetable and fruit based diet. No meat, no dairy-" She's cut off before she can ramble off the health benefits.

"I thought we were having seared pork tonight."

Placing her hands on her hips, she stares down at him, still adorned in _his_ ruffle-edged apron. "We are."

"Where is it?"

"There." She makes a motion to the spot on the ceramic containing the aforementioned item.

He quirks a brow, face deadpan as per ever otherwise. "That's not pork."

"It's soy pork."

"Hnnnn. 'Soy' pork doesn't really constitute as pork, Petra."

"Just try it."

He lifts sharp, charcoal orbs from the healthy plate before him to the piercing, copper gaze of his wife. She's bloody serious about this. Although despite her clear determination, he isn't one to back down.

"Tch."

"Well, fine. You can prepare your own food if you don't like it, Levi."

His ashen gaze grows pensive as he sits in silence a second before lifting the fork to his mouth.

A coy smile paints her lips. Bingo.

"Well?"

"Looks like shit."

"How does it taste?"

"Not like shit."

Her smile widens. That's his form of compliment.

"Are we vegans every day?"

"No. Just Tuesdays."

Though it isn't the worst thing he's ever had, he's relieved to know it isn't a permanent thing.

She takes a spot next to him, bringing a spoonful of roasted pepper, wheat bhulgur to her lips.

"Tomorrow?"

"Hmm?" A warm hum pours from her throat, through her food as she glances to him, setting her fork against the plate with a clink.

"Tomorrow." Flat syllables. "Can we _actually_ have char siu?"

She giggles, bringing a hand to her lips as she nods, face still stuffed with her vegan, culinary magic.

"All right."


	7. Initiative

She smiles, settling her things around her as she takes a seat against the warm concrete, feeling it heat her calves even through the thick knitting of her socks. She opens her lunch pail to reveal a lovely selection; cucumber sandwiches, a sliced medley of fruit and a bottle of cold, peach tea- as a friend, someone dear to her, comes to occupy the space next to her, as he usually would.  
"Well?"  
"Well, what?"  
He smiles, unfolding the rather bland cloth wrapped about his lunch pail. "You know what."  
A tinge of warmth paints her cheeks to match her calves, shifting against the hot concrete. "I haven't yet."  
"I figured as much." He chuckles a bit, azure eyes bright and playful as he waves his sandwich about in the air at her, a white sauce painting the corners of his mouth. "Come on, don't hold back on it."  
A light quirk of a crinkle grows in her copper brow, her lips pursed to the side. "Erd."  
"Well, you _are_ meant for each other."  
She pushes his shoulder, downing more of the cool cucumber sandwich with a swig of peach tea. "Just eat your stupid sandwich."  
"So my sandwich is stupid now?"  
Copper orbs roll. "Sure. Yes, Erd. Exactly."  
"If anyone's being stupid, Petra, it's you. It's our last year. Why don't you just say it?"  
"It's not that easy, Erd."  
"Sure it is."  
"Says the guy who got asked by his girl."  
"Just because she took the initiative doesn't make my opinion any less valid."  
"I'm taking the initiative too."  
"Really? It's been what- 6 years since I first asked how you felt about him and... I haven't seen any initiative in all this time." He chuckles and she hushes him with a soft punch in the arm- in part for the comment, but mostly due to the patter of footsteps approaching. Little does Erd know, she wrote a letter, though it's not one that's ever likely to be shared.  
Amber eyes lift to the classmates who come to take their usual positions against the hot concrete, the incessant whirr of cicadas blending with their conversation.

As the bell rings to signal the end of lunch period, she gathers her things in a rush- they're late. She stands in a frenzy, her face colliding with Levi's chest, a small chirp erupting from her form as their belongings splay every which way about the searing concrete roof.  
"Ah. Sorry, Levi."  
He nods rather stiffly. "Don't worry of it, Petra."  
He thus bends with her, each of them gathering their things that were strewn about in their collision. Little do they know, there's been an exchange in inventory.  
Though not exactly initiative, it'll do the trick.


	8. Blind Date

This could be a pleasant experience, she could be the most charming of charmings, the most gorgeous girl in the world; one as socially awkward as he or somehow miraculously both friendly and not irritating in one. She could be shorter than he and have a smile that outshone the sun and a heart to wildly dedicate to a cause all her own. She could be perfect for him, just as they said. Tch. Not likely.

Having left his auto at the car park some blocks down the road, swift steps are made to the restaurant; a quaint, home-owned, rather upscale, Greek place. He doesn't know much of it other than it's costly and he doesn't exactly want to be here... nor does he bloody understand the concept of blind dating… Who the fuck would want to meet in a forced social environment with someone they don't know?

He thinks back on how he got here… Ah, yes… he was called into the office. The time he finally agreed was surely not the first time they'd suggested it; No… it was probably the 20th or so time they'd asked… and surely the first time they'd brought it up at work; in their fucking professional quarters.

"Levi. You're getting old; we're setting you up on a blind date."  
He grimaced and scoffed at his boss, long-time 'friend' _and_ his shitty eyebrows. "Tch. No. You're the old man, Erwin."  
The guttural sounds of another erupted from behind him. "Aaaah! But come on, Levi! It'll be great! She's perfect for you!"  
He shot sharp, ashen orbs to the loud-mouthed shitty four eyes, before Erwin spoke anew.  
"These are orders, Levi."  
"This isn't in my fucking job description, Erwin. Now fucking leave me be. How many bloody times do I have to say 'no' before you fucking understand it as 'no'."  
That same, guttural, loud-mouthed voice. "The first time you say yes." A shit-eating grin.  
A crinkle grew in his brow, the grooves beneath his lower lash line deepening. "Tch. Piss off, Shitty Four Eyes."  
She bounced over, using his entire being as per his small stature, as an arm rest, a playful look in her round, excited, chestnut eyes. "If you'd just agreeeeee….."  
"Tch. What? You'd leave me the fuck alone about it?" His words are slow and sharp.  
She looked to Erwin with a wide smile and he returned it with a rather genuine nod; both of their eyes aglow with satisfaction, which only served to piss him off further. Her nasalised voice broke the few seconds of cherished silence. "If you gooooo."  
"Tch. If I fucking go on this blind bloody date… neither of you will _ever_ fucking bring up the topic of me dating again?"  
The most shit-eating of grins he'd seen her sport yet. "Yes."

Arriving at the small restaurant, his eyes deftly take in his surroundings, scanning for the woman he was so forcibly scheduled to meet. Hn. She likely thought this would be a pleasant thing; or did they force her too? And so, here arises the problem with the whole concept of blind dating—he doesn't know what she fucking looks like— nor what she's wearing— nor her voice. They've never once met… how were they supposed to find one another? A light glint of irritation crosses his ashen orbs, a pale crinkle growing in his thin brow line. All he knows is that the woman he's scheduled to meet is '_perfect for him'_… and she somehow knows Shitty Four Eyes and Shitty Eyebrows… He eventually deduces that if she's on time; she must be one of two single women here; either the copper haired one at the entrance… or the rather young-looking blonde on the mahogany bench the side opposite.

For some reason, he's somewhat drawn to the pale woman with freckle-spiced skin… He feels as if he's seen her before… met her… spoken… But. No. No he hasn't. A rather curious glint crosses his stone gaze as he approaches her with swift steps in his rather dapper attire; a well-cut charcoal suit jacket and pants with a white oxford and meticulously-folded, ivory cravat, his brow lightly upturned as he inquires flatly.

"Do you know Shitty Four Eyes?" Cordial as per ever.

"Hmm?" A sweet, rolling hum pours from her throat, over his ears and for a second, he feels he could drown in that tone.

As the woman before him raises her warm, amber gaze to meet his, it's as if his heart skips a beat. For a second—he's seeing things; there's a different woman in front of him; same smile, same honey eyes and copper fringe, but… her attire is different; rugged and military-esque, her fist, balled and placed over her heart in some sort of salute. His stone eyes widen at the sight before him, causing a sudden tightness to his chest, but… he blinks—which is more than enough time for it to be washed away; her image returning to its current time and place. His throat is taught and dry, two flat syllables flowing off his tongue as if he's spoken this word to her hundreds of times before… Though he hasn't. And he shouldn't even know it.

"Petra?"


	9. Survive

And here she lies before him; aglow with speckled dots that break through the thicket above, a teasing movement by the light breeze that plays with her silken fringe... She was always so colourful- _Oh,_ and she continues to be... though now, her colours are displaced- warm, copper eyes and the lively heat of her cheeks are but streaks of cracked, glistening crimson streaming from her facial orifices- those places he once kissed and nipped and -however flatly, as with everything- whispered poorly formed sweet nothings; for he was always poor with words.

* * *

That matters not anymore. Time and words are just obligatory games to him. Seconds fold to minutes, minutes to hours and hours to days but he couldn't care less. If it weren't for the toll of bells and militant duties, time would cease to exist for him; just as she has. Yes, a new normal comes to be. Hnnnn. Normalcy. The comportment and behaviour of others, of _all_ -including him- fades to a new sort of _typical_- as if that day never happened, as if she was but another soldier. Oh, but she was... another soldier. But to him, _oh_, so much more. Yes, a new normal comes to be- where he still downs steaming, bitter tea in the mornings and rises long before dawn from patterned nightmares of regret and inexperience, to mid-day cleanings and training sessions with a Squad not truly his own, to tea and silence and food he barely picks at because nothing fucking tastes like anything anymore.

Ah, so _this_ is blandness... this is... _normalcy_.

However, what is normal anymore? Yes, he survived. But is this really living?


	10. Flowers

"Levi!" A bright, playful giggle as he feels something soft touch his scalp.

"Hnnnn?" Flat, ashen orbs flit up to her at his side, deft, charcoal eyes making quick work of the lines of her face- committed to memory. There's a vibrant luminosity to her even on the most dreary of days. Nonetheless, he's pleased today isn't one of those. The grass- verdent and lush- whistles with the welcoming of spring; dotted with flowers, just like the handwoven wreath that now decorates his raven crown in tiny specks of white. Truly, she expected him to immediately toss it from his brow, but he hardly moves, staring her down rather flatly as she settles herself at his side. "What is this, Petra?"

"Ah, it's a flower crown." A soft smile. "My father used to make them with me when I was a girl."

"I think it would look better on you."

She stifles a giggle, a coy smile painting her face as a breeze rushes her honey locks. "No. I like it this way."

Silence.

"Er, would you rather I took it back?"

He pulls it down from his scalp, studying the way she's knotted and twisted the stems in a manner that doesn't look half like destruction. No, it's clean and skillful- just like her. "No._ I_ like it this way." Flat words.

She places it atop his head anew, a playful curve to her lips as she cuddles against his sitting form on this verdant, earthly carpet. "I knew you would."

"Next time, you'll wear it."

"All right."

…

That time never came. Dried, cracked leaves and petals nearly turn to dust in his fingers. She too - like these flowers-, is wilted and gone. What she did all those months ago, he would have crafted for her in return- a thickly woven crown of 3- no 4- no 5 layers; full of warm sparks of pink, lush purples and tiny flints of cerulean that would pierce through the lacy silken, translucent cloth laid about her copper locks. Yes, a crown, only fitting- for she is, after all, the Queen of his heart. However, he can never fulfill such a promise, and neither can she- she never showed him how she so skillfully created such worthless, beautiful things. Even if she had, there's no longer a honey coloured girl to share them with anyway.


	11. In which Levi wishes he hadn't let go

The low rub of metal on metal surrounds him with the sound of rushing air, invading his mind—and it is -as always with such adrenaline-, a heightened sensation. His chest is tight and heavy as sharp, charcoal orbs flit about, falling on one, after another, crumpled, broken, bleeding form. Their eyes all glazed and passed from this world; lifeless, cold and— the pain furthers in his chest, in his gut, in his lungs as his speed increases, as the thought of finding her becomes all that fills his mind. Gunther, Erd, Auruo- gone. Yes, gone. Oh, and where is she? The last to be found, or rather, maybe he would prefer not to find her here. No, with Eren. With Eren. She's with Eren.

...

If only that were true. The rough rasp of leather on tree bark scrapes his ear drums- he's found her... with the others, as she always is... always _was_. His chest grows ever tight, and it's as if _he's_ the one that isn't breathing. His lungs refuse oxygen. Charcoal orbs peer into lifeless, tender, copper eyes, staring up at him with a cracked spine from the rippling grass below. Her amber fringe plays at a brow that is broken and upturned, her body collided with the tree bark on the silky earthen carpet, her pink lips slightly agape and pouring -as does her nose-, crimson in streams up her freckled-spiced cheek, painted with the speckled splay of lighted dots and shadows that break over her through the thicket above, casting splotchy patterns over her otherwise porcelain face. She is… such a contrast of beauty and disgust, rough and soft, life and death and he wishes he didn't know this woman. Oh, but he does. All _too_ well. It grows so vivid, the pain in his gut, the swirling sensation in his chest, the regret and anxiety that drown him-.

"Levi! Levi! LEVI!"

He's startled awake, chest heaving, forehead dripping; the room feels as if it were aflame, the air he exhales no different. Sharp, widened, charcoal orbs beneath a broken brow fall over her form next to him; there's fear and pain and sadness painted in those honey eyes.

"Levi. It's all right. It was-"

His arms snake around her form so tightly, it grows hard to breathe, but she makes no complaint, eyes softening. "Le-Levi..."

"Petra."

She doesn't need to ask him what's just transpired in the nightmarish world of his mind, for that which plagues him is always the same the evening before expeditions. And with Eren tomorrow, she imagines it to have been only worse. Her free arm strokes gently at the shaved part of his undercut, intertwining her porcelain legs with his within this sea of sheets, _ensnared_ by his muscular form as though she would cease to exist should he let go.

...

He wishes he hadn't let go.


	12. Dream

The low rub of metal on metal surrounds him with the sound of rushing air, invading his mind—and it is -as always with such adrenaline-, a heightened sensation. His chest is tight and heavy as sharp, charcoal orbs flit about, falling on one, after another, crumpled, broken, bleeding form. Their eyes all glazed and passed from this world; lifeless, cold and— the pain furthers in his chest, in his gut, in his lungs as his speed increases, as the thought of finding her becomes all that fills his mind. Gunther, Erd, Auruo- gone. Yes, gone. Oh, and where is she? The last to be found, or rather, maybe he would prefer not to find her here. No, with Eren. With Eren. She's with Eren.

...

If only that were true. The rough rasp of leather on tree bark scrapes his ear drums- he's found her... with the others, as she always is... always _was_. His chest grows ever tight, and it's as if _he's_ the one that isn't breathing. His lungs refuse oxygen. Charcoal orbs peer into lifeless, tender, copper eyes, staring up at him with a cracked spine from the rippling grass below. Her amber fringe plays at a brow that is broken and upturned, her body collided with the tree bark on the silky earthen carpet, her pink lips slightly agape and pouring -as does her nose-, crimson in streams up her freckled-spiced cheek, painted with the speckled splay of lighted dots and shadows that break over her through the thicket above, casting splotchy patterns over her otherwise porcelain face. She is… such a contrast of beauty and disgust, rough and soft, life and death and he wishes he didn't know this woman. Oh, but he does. All _too_ well. It grows so vivid, the pain in his gut, the swirling sensation in his chest, the regret and anxiety that drown him-.

"Levi! Levi! LEVI!"

He's startled awake, chest heaving, forehead dripping; the room feels as if it were aflame, the air he exhales no different. Sharp, widened, charcoal orbs beneath a broken brow fall over her form next to him; there's fear and pain and sadness painted in those honey eyes.

"Levi. It's all right. It was-"

His arms snake around her form so tightly, it grows hard to breathe, but she makes no complaint, eyes softening. "Le-Levi..."

"Petra."

She doesn't need to ask him what's just transpired in the nightmarish world of his mind, for that which plagues him is always the same the evening before expeditions. And with Eren tomorrow, she imagines it to have been only worse. Her free arm strokes gently at the shaved part of his undercut, intertwining her porcelain legs with his within this sea of sheets, _ensnared_ by his muscular form as though she would cease to exist should he let go.

...

He wishes he hadn't let go.


	13. In which Hange shares a story with SL

_A/N: Hardly Rivetra, mostly Squad Levi. I love Squad Levi too much for my own good, but it's still a little bit Rivetra. _

* * *

"Aaaaah. I'm so bored." He leans back against the dewey grass, tawny eyes meeting the blackened sky- speckled with stars.

"Ooooooooo?" A guttural noise of inquisition paired with crazed, insatiable chestnut eyes.

Moblit's face paints with terror. "No, no!"

"How about a scary storyyyyyy?" As she leans forward, her eyes grow unseen with the flicker of fire refracted in the lenses of her glasses.

Further panic. "No! No!" Desperation.

"Tch. This is fucking stupid."

"Yeah, I think you might give poor Moblit here a heart attack." Chuckles. "Or, you know, Auruo might piss himself again like that time in middle school at Petra's birthday party."

"Eeeeeh, piss off, Erd." In his usual, drawn-out tone.  
This only serves to further entertain those that were present for the aforementioned experience.

"Ooooooooo! But it's a good one!"

"I'm up for it." A soft smile by the honey coloured girl that's just returned with more marshmallows.

"Yeah, me too."

"Sounds good- as long as you're cool with Auruo pissing himself."

"Eeeeh- Come on- it was one time- I was like 13-"

"That doesn't help your case."

Her speech from there on out is as guttural as ever, though she adds a wavering, faux-haunted sort of tone to it. "OkaAAaAAAaaay!"

Ashen orbs roll with displeasure. "Tch. Fuck this."

"What LeeEEEeeevvvvIIIiiiIII? Are you afraaAAAaaaid? Need to shiiiiIIIIiiit?"

Erd and Gunther stifle a laugh.

"Tch. I just don't want to hear your quavery ghost bullshit, Shitty Four Eyes."

"YoooOooou're missiiiIIIiing OoooouuuuUUUut!"

He stands, taking his leave.

"So our story begins... right here at this cabin!"

A stifled whimper of terror from Moblit.

"This is bull."

"NoOOOoo! ReeEEEaaally! 1000 years ago, there lived here a set of twins! They looked."

"just."

"like."

Dramatic pause.

"each other!"

A shriek.

"Of course they did."

"NoOOOooo! That's not the scary paaaAAAaart!"

Rustling is heard as Petra fights the plastic packaging of the marshmallows open, passing the bag around the fire.

"One day, one of the twins... went missing! He was nowhere to be found. They checked the mountains and the forest and even the old, locked cellar but there was no trace of the young boy. His twin... grew rather lonely. He stopped talking but would point at that lake..." A swift motion of one arm, pretending to be the young, abandoned twin. "...every day."

Moblit frowns.

"Then one day, the family went missing. All of them. The twinless twin and his parents too and the house grew abandoned for 50 years. When the next family moved in, their child began pointing at the lake whenever he was near it, telling his parents something was there. Something was coming. Until one day, he disappeared. And then another, and another and another child. All disappeared. They say, that the twinless twin drowned himself and his spirit still haunts the area, approaching children and high schoolers in search of his brother, to take them away to the bottom of the black lake. If you're unfortunate enough to meet the twinless twin, you'll know, by his sunken in eyes, like cold slits of ashen ice, his thin frame, and dripping locks as black as the lake from which he rise-"

"Oi."

Erd and Auruo shriek in unison, clutching to one another as Moblit grasps Hange in a fit of fear and protection- the sound coming from that very face with sunken in eyes and dripping, black hair that approaches them with silent steps from behind. Petra, long used to Levi's sopping, raven locks post shower and his sharp, charcoal eyes in the dark, is the only audience member to laugh.


	14. Lies

"Alright, so I feel like your relations with the captain just need to be made public because your attempts at hiding it are shoddy at best. We all know what's been going on."

A warm rush stains her freckle-spiced cheeks due to Erd's prompt announcement as she comes to take her spot at the mess hall table. A faux crinkle of confusion grows in her copper brow. "Wh-what?"

A nasalised sound of displeasure. "Haaaaaah? What do you mean by that, Erd?"

Even stoic, quiet, straight-laced Gunther wants to laugh at Auruo's drawn-out, nasalised perplexity.  
"Petra and the Captain are a thing."

"Whaaaaat? Tch. No they're not." His wrinkled face grows all the more raisin-like with his doubt as his tawny brow upturns over closed eyes of denial.

Petra is determined to stay quiet through this for as long as possible, watching silently as her squad mates bicker over whether or not she's banging Captain Levi.

"Yes they are, Auruo. They are. Whenever Petra shows up late, it's at the _exact_ same time, _with_ Captain Levi and love marks on her neck and her hair dishevelled and all. She sneaks into his room at night, the captain calls her to his quarters on occasion _in front of us_, they've even played footsie under this table. They are a thing, Auruo. I will even bet you money on it."

Auruo's face further contorts, possibly turning redder than Petra's. "Eeeeeh, no no-" A contemplative pause as his wrinkly brow folds further in denial. "No.- tha-that's just all circumstantial evidence."

"Oi."

The entire quartet darts their heads to the now open door, filled with the small frame of Captain Levi himself. His deadpan expression and flat syllables lead them to believe they're in for some sort of sharp-tongued lecture or at the least, a silent, angry demeanour for the evening on his part. However, much to their surprise, he adds rather flatly to his prior statement, like the socially inept individual he is.

"Auruo. I'm fucking Petra."

Her face fills with red.

"Doesn't get more public than that."


End file.
